


inverted lights

by hackercatz (tsunbrownie)



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Demon!Aziraphale, Gen, angel!Crowley
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-14 15:22:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19276033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsunbrownie/pseuds/hackercatz
Summary: or: drabble collection of demon aziraphale  x angel crowley





	1. i. in the name

**Author's Note:**

> ok so a quick blast of hc info before goin in (bc i can't bother to translate the whole bunch of fics i wrote in korean about these two, i'll do it one day but not today) :  
> \- angel!crowley is in love w/ the entire human race and a huge dork. he hates heaven because of the children-killing stuff and they communicate Very Loosely. he has highkey depression because of that (being rejected by ur own kind??? uncool) and he surrounds himself w/ other humans to kick away some of these depression. he dresses himself in tight jeans (frustrating literally everyone) and gives humanity a bunch of cool inventions to make their lives easier. he probably invented sending baby animal pictures via text. he probably still invented selfies. he still has plants but he now yells less and instead comforts them  
> \- demon!aziraphale also loves humanity, crowley, and collecting stuff. because he's been in Hell, he's a bit hardcore now. he kept the name bc it legit pisses of heaven. he thinks angel!crowley is a bunny. he's also a Super Important Government Official in every single timeframe and is very rich. he tries to feed angel!crowley at every opportunity bc he's pretty much a stick. he dresses himself in meticulous three piece suits and crowley's sense of dress frustrates him. he kept the sword heaven gave him, which now burns in hell's fire. the reason public sector takes 3 years to get anything done is because of him, also public wifi's internet speed
> 
> also demon!aziraphale flirts with angel!crowley all the time because now he calls him "my dear angel"
> 
> THIS ONE in particular is inspired by the one [crowley = raphael post on tumblr](https://the-reading-lemon.tumblr.com/post/185427668198/the-crowley-meta-no-one-asked-for) and a whole bunch of us were thinkin about okay but _what if angel crowley_ and this came out youre welcome 
> 
> (also shit i really cant write in my native language lol why is english so much easier)

i. in the name

Dressed in a loose shirt and tight jeans that have no right to be that tight and probably evokes one of the seven deadly sins from humans that manages to bypass them, the angel waves cheerfully at his direction upon noticing it. Aziraphale keeps his face surprisingly blank, keeping his evil grin tightly under wraps. He wants this to be a surprise, after all.

“Sup, my bro homie,” Crowley shouts, then winces immediately. “I’m not saying that ever again. That sounded hundred percent better in my head. Yep, never saying that again.”

Ignoring Crowley’s attempt at ‘slang’ and keeping the comment about how _even if you multiply zero with two it’d still be zero_ to himself, Aziraphale extends his own polite salutation. “Hello, Crowley,” he murmurs as he closes his distance to the point where he’s leaning subtly at the angel’s shoulders. Preparing himself, he whispers seductively, “or should I say, Raphael?”

Finding out the angel’s name (not his true one, his ‘assigned’ one in Heaven) took a lot of effort and even more bribery, but he managed just like most of his other side projects. And oh, he hoped it was something embarrassing, so he could make jokes out of it, and God must have given his Christmas present early, because, seriously, _Raphael_? He didn’t even _need_ to find humiliating reconnaissance painting of him because he already had so many on hand already in his collection.

There are a myriad of reactions he expects from his angel upon hearing his name: notable ones being embarrassment ( _I swear to god, stop calling me by that name, Az, I put it behind for a reason_ ,) surprise ( _how in the world did you find out my angelic name? I sure haven’t told you, and the angels would rather be sent to their deathbed rather than tell you anything regarding heaven_ ) or exasperation ( _don’t start, demon, like you don’t have some equally embarrassing name like Mephistopheles that you’re choosing to keep your heavenly title._ )

Crowley surprises him. That is one of the main traits of the angel, doing something so incredibly out of character for a celestial being so effortlessly even Aziraphale deeply wonders if he’s been originally programmed to be a human. It’s also why he’s so obsessed with him. Yet this time, it’s not a pleasant surprise, but instead of an ugly one. Crowley’s face utterly drains of blood, becoming pale as his own wings and his (frankly smudged but still white enough) T-shirt. Aziraphale takes an involuntary step back because that expression can only be described as _utter and deject terror_.

“No, no, no, no, no, don’t call me that, don’t call me that, please, don’t say that, I can’t, I can’t do it, I can’t– “ when Crowley begins to shake all over, Aziraphale takes him into his arms, wondering _what in the world is going on_. He’s so desperate and terrified that he chokes over his own words as he babbles out, “I can’t, I can’t, I’m going to die, I can’t, I’m not, I can’t ever be, I’m not, I’m, I’m not, I don’t deserve, please, please, _please_ –“

He numbly lets the angel collapse into his arms, and he feels his mortal constitution’s heart banging out within its cage. From the reaction, he can see it seems to function as a trigger for the angel, and he’s horrified of that prospect because what must happen to one for their _name_ to function as a trigger? One’s very definition being a reminder of Hell – or in this case, Heaven. He knows Heaven damaged Crowley beyond repair, but he just hasn’t expected how much.

He realizes he’s never detested Heaven as much as this very moment. 

He carefully collects Crowley in his arms, settles him into a nearby bench that’s conveniently located there (with a sprinkle of demonic miracle.) He silently runs his elegant digits in the angel’s hair, letting the terror liquidize into calmness, slowly but surely. It takes thirteen minutes, Aziraphale’s calming petting seeming to support his healing process. “s’rry for freaking you out,” Crowley murmurs into Aziraphale’s suit one he’s recovered some sane thought, “didn’t expect you to say that. Didn’t expect to hear that name after so long, really.”

“What happened, my dear?” He asks, deeply curious and utterly infuriated. He keeps the rage in the deep confines of his stomach, because he knows Crowley cannot handle negativity right now, even on his behalf – an idiot, Aziraphale has to comment. “It’s your _name_ , darling.”

“Yeah, also happens to be the name of a seraphim that I never ever deserved, putting humanity over Heaven at every opportunity,” Crowley hollowly whispers, and Aziraphale knows those aren’t his own words. His anger now burns into righteous fury. “And humanity knows me – ha, me – as the angel of healing. That means whenever that news gets out, a bunch of sick humans all rush to me, asking to help their son, their brothers, their mothers, and I can’t ever say no. I can’t, ‘zira, I can’t, and when I do one, more people come to me, and I can’t stop until every single drop of miracle is drained out of me, and–“ Crowley whispers out. “Do you know what death feels like? I never thought I’d know what that feeling would be like. But I went dead close once. Woke up with my form discorporated, thought I never would wake up again.”

And that is so utterly in-character with Crowley, the angel he’s fallen in love with, that he clutches desperately to him. Not being able to meet Heaven’s standards, not being able to reject humanity and their desperation, tearing himself to pieces in progress. _Be selfish for once_ , Aziraphale wants to scream, _care about yourself like I care about you_ , he wants to etch the words into the angel’s skin, but he suppresses all those demonic thoughts and instead gives a tight smile. “I could never. I apologize, I wouldn’t have said it if I knew the circumstances.”

In turn, Crowley gives his own quirk of lips. “I know. I think that’s why I was able to bounce back quickly from it.” A pause. “I really appreciate the apology, though, Aziraphale.”

And in the end, that’s all that matters.


	2. a (100%) chance encounter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's still a chance encounter even if that chance is 100%, right? or: aziraphale keeps kidnapping crowley and crowley calls him out for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH NO I DID IT AGAIN I LOVE THESE DORKS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

According to understandings that Crowley have come to by spending time with humanity for nearly six thousand years, most people consider the prospect of being picked up by a long, luxurious limousine flattering. Crowley is not most people. Crowley isn’t even human. Crowley is an angel, and angels don’t really get impressed by a show of materialism. So, when he hears the familiar rumble of car engine attracting attention from outside his shop (it’s gotten familiar at this point, which says a lot about this whole situation) he wonders briefly if he should just miracle himself back home, pick up a book on horticulture instead. Pet a few stray cats, watch a documentary on marine environments and all that. Yet he knows if he does that, the owner of the said vehicle would be vexed to the point where he may do something extreme (and undeniably evil.) So, for the sake of the universe, he saunters out of his shop, slip the open sign to closed, and then slips smoothly into the back door.

The entire car’s design screams Aziraphale: that means the carseat is sleek black, flawless leather. Crowley rolls his eyes despite having no one to appreciate it and relaxes into the seat. The car started once he slipped in, and they’re going somewhere. Where, he doesn’t know. He could take a guess: they could be going to the Ritz, or some obnoxiously exclusive restaurant Crowley wouldn’t be led under usual circumstances, or even a dark cell to be kept on his toes. God knows what he wants to do, that demon has never been predictable to him.

It’s a silent ride, no words being exchanged between the driver and himself. Not that he really could: they’re pretty far apart, and even if Crowley does scream, it’s not like the man would reply. He knows this because he had attempted it in prior rides in a desperate attempt to dissolve the awkwardness, but according to Aziraphale, his secretaries prefer the air pulled taut like a guitar string over communicating with him, so Crowley had stopped trying. Bored out of his mind, stuck in London traffic (which Aziraphale, the cause of every public sector nightmare fuel ever imaginable, was directly responsible for) Crowley fishes out his phone and begins to play Candy Crush Saga on it.

He’s on his third round when the car comes to a gradual stop, and his side of the door is opened. He doesn’t bother to move his gaze from the game as he trails after the suit-clad man straight out of a James Bond film (which, surprisingly, turned out to be more Crowley’s type of media over Aziraphale’s.) Stepping in an elevator, he let the machine defy gravity and bring himself up high – _really_ high, considering how Crowley managed to beat a second round on the elevator itself.

Aziraphale has a knack for exclusivity. He is a demon, vanity’s obviously his strong point, but the Demon of Eden takes that to a new level by collecting rare antiques and destroying every other copy in order to make his own priceless, and by grandiose gesture at everything he does. Excellent example is the sight that is revealed upon him: the restaurant, located top of a skyscraper with a clear view of the city and obviously high class, is completely empty void the two of them despite its size, suggesting the entire floor has been rented out.

In the center, with a cocktail in hand, is Aziraphale dressed in his sharp, creaseless three-piece suit. At this point, Crowley is now convinced he owns nothing else. When Crowley walks forward and loudly drags the chair back, Aziraphale gives him a halfhearted glare.

“Is the whole kidnapping charade necessary? There are _phones_ now, ‘Zira. You could text me, like any other sane individual in the twenty first century, and I’d drive my sleek Bentley instead of being picked up like a toy.”

“I don’t take well to those contraptions,” Aziraphale merely gives him a devilish grin, “furthermore, being dressed like that, they wouldn’t even let you through the front door of this establishment. Trust me, it’s simpler this way.”

Crowley doesn’t know what’s so wrong about worn jeans and a perfectly fine T-shirt. They sure serve their purpose well-enough, blending with the locals and covering all the important parts of the body. Aziraphale, however, has never been fond of his style of dress, which is ironic considering that Crowley has always adapted his clothing to the appropriate era unlike Aziraphale, who insisted on wearing that same goddamn suit wherever he went. He knows there’s no point fighting on the demon regarding the point, since his mind is apparently already made up on it.

“A bit dramatic, I’m just saying. You could… I don’t know, ask your secretary to phone me or something,” yet, at the expression Aziraphale chose to adopt, he groans, “I know you don’t like your goons interacting with me more than strictly necessary, but don’t you think having them kidnap me in broad daylight is more dramatic and unnecessarily interactive?”  

“You didn’t have to get kidnapped,” Aziraphale points out, “you could have simply refused to come. You’re still an angel, and although I may be a miracle worker, it does have limits.”

“Yeah, but then you’d sulk,” Crowley replies smoothly.

“I don’t _sulk_.”

“Yeah, you do.”

“You’re not going to stop, are you?” The angel sighs petulantly, already resigned of the answer that’d soon come out of the demon’s mouth.

“No.”

He settles into his seat, flicking over the menu. The silence envelops the two of them, but it isn’t as tense as it would be. He supposes because he’s gotten used to the fact that Aziraphale enjoys plucking him out of his shop, and it’s only a minor inconvenience on his part – if the action for some strange reason brings great joy to the demon, why wouldn’t he comply? They were friends, after all. Friend. He had a friend now. A celestial being, albeit on the wrong side.

“You don’t actually have a problem with this arrangement, do you?” Aziraphale asks later in the meal, when there’s a trout sitting in front of the demon and a chocolate fondue sitting in front of the angel.

Crowley makes a big hand-waving motion, letting it flop around for a while. “Nah. If it makes you happy, I don’t have a problem with it.”


	3. a night not to be remembered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley's in a bad mood. Turns out he had every reason to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. angel!crowley swears (a Lot) because i can't imagine him not  
> 2\. demon!zira kept the sword when he fell  
> 3\. IDK WHO IT WAS WHO CAME UP W/ HOLY WATER PLANT MISTER ANGEL CROWLEY BUT THANK U

Crowley takes pride in his kind, soft nature. Despite what humans believe, angels are cold-blooded and harsh concerning human ordeals, and Crowley spends most of his energy trying not to be lumped with one of them. To be different from them. Usually, he can manage it fine. Today is not one of those days – with his blood boiling over and his heart slamming within its cage (ironic, since he technically has no need for either) his control over his mortal coil is slipping as his celestial glow faintly resonates under his skin, his internal power threatening to burst from its tightly-wrapped cage. He is no demon, he has no need for bloodbath to settle the wrath that envelops him, so instead he bursts into the only being in proximity who could hold his ground down with him, and Aziraphale welcomes him into his home (his mansion) with a raised eyebrow as he practically launches himself at the demon’s wine cellar to wrench the closest bottle he can find.

He takes the bottle by the neck and brings it to his lips. The demon standing on the opposite side goes paler and paler as the purple liquid disappears from its canister and slides into his throat. Crowley only slams down the vial once it’s completely devoid of all fluids.

“That was terribly expensive wine you just drank out of the bottle,” Aziraphale comments politely.

Crowley mutters, “tough,” letting the searing liquid work its magic around his mortal body. It burns, and after that meeting and the following headache, the throbbing is a welcome distraction and he embraces it.

“What happened, my dear? I know alcohol is an indulgence of yours, but usually it’s accompanied with less anger and more invigoration.”

“Gabriel happened, ‘s what,” Crowley rolls his eyes. “He’s a dick.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale concedes knowingly, his expression morphing from one of curiosity to sympathy. “Do you think he’d replace the wine if I tell him?”

“Nah. He’ll slice you clean in half, then slice me in half for liaising with a demon,” the angel flops on the demon’s king-sized bed (ridiculous, since he doesn’t even _sleep_ ) and yawns. Now that the meeting is over, the tension slowly drains out of him and in its place is the sticky pleasantness that alcohol brings. He blinks drowsily up at the demon and gives a catlike grin of his own. “I’d like to see you try, though.”

Although Aziraphale was a high-ranking demon capable of holding his own ground against most angels, he was no means delusional – even he didn’t think that he would win against one of the Seraphim. Inflict colossal damage to him and lose, perhaps, but victory, even with a few limbs lost? Aziraphale shakes his head. Although it has been a few millennia since the war, the battle between Heaven and Hell is still clearly seared into his mind.

The demon walks towards him, lands an assuring hand on his back, and Crowley can feel his slipping celestial form tightly suppressed again.

Technically, it’s not that Crowley does not get along with all of heaven. With soldiers under his command and most of the humans who’ve transcended their mortality he gets along with just fine; it is just figures of authority he often finds himself in constantly conflict with. Gabriel. Metatron. Aziraphale finds it quite amusing he has not managed to enrage God for whatever reasons – perhaps it’s because Crowley is still good by heart that he was able to avoid the Falling. Or perhaps because of his state as a Seraphim.

“I feel like I’m not drunk enough,” Crowley grumbles, obviously unhappy he can form coherent words and thought. “I want another bottle,” and as he reaches for another close and horribly expensive bottle, Aziraphale takes him by the wrist and wrestles him away.

“That’s enough for today, don’t you think?”

“ _’Zira_ ,” Crowley whines, petulantly glaring at the at the host, “it’s not like I’m going to die of alcohol poisoning or s’mthin. And I can put it back.”

“Yes, and I’d have a bottle of wine that had been previously in you,” all wines in these cellars are meant to be enjoyed, to be sipped with steak, on special occasion. He’s tempted to grab a bottle of vodka he’d also stashed away, considerably cheaper, but he takes in the sight of the angel and decides otherwise. What Crowley needs is a distraction, and alcohol would only provide a perverted distortion of the actual process.

So Aziraphale grabs Crowley by the wrists and miracles them onto his king-sized bed with satin sheets instead. Crowley comfortably sinks into the mattress, his eyes coming half-closed by the wine’s effect, and mumbles, “never understood why you needed a bed. You don’t sleep.”

“I do not, but I do like to read. And what better place to read than on the bed, my dear angel?”

“Fair point,” Crowley mumbles.

“Tell me about your interaction with Gabriel,” Aziraphale prompts softly, earning a scoff from the half-drunk angel.

“What, you’re not trying to seduce me into bed?”

“You are already in my bed, angel, and your inhibitions are lowered. That is no challenge.”

“Trust you to act all gentlemanly in bed. Most demons would do _anything_ to corrupt an angel.”

“Most demons you would have killed a long time ago,” because Aziraphale knows better: just because Crowley is unarmed does not mean he is not without souls crushed under his feet – actually, Crowley probably has more demons vanquished than any other, and only equipped with a plant mister filled with holy water. The angel of healing only applies its nature towards humans, utterly merciless and unmoving when it comes to any other celestial being (which apparently includes the angels.)

“Most demons don’t carry a perversion of Heaven’s blade,” the angel murmurs, his glance earning a hard edge, but it dissipates quickly. Crowley’s had six thousand years to accept that Aziraphale, despite being able to murder him in cold blood, would not.

“You’re attempting to distract me, my dear, and I won’t stand for it,” Aziraphale scolds sternly, and Crowley awkwardly glances away. “Come now, tell me about your meeting with Gabriel.”

“He wants me to come back to Heaven,” Crowley stares at the ceiling, and his eyes dull, “to train an army against Hell when Armageddon eventually occurs. Making sure I’m ‘up to form’, he called it. It’s only a mere moment of years, demon.”

Aziraphale stiffens, because his world without the angel is a considerably darker one he would not like to envisage. Surely, Heaven will send another angel, perhaps a Principality, to oversee London in his absence – and that angel, absent with the mannerisms and kindness that Crowley possesses would attempt to challenge Aziraphale and, frankly, Aziraphale does not enjoy bloodbath no more than Crowley, even if they are an agent of the other side. He prefers civil settlements, and ideally, the Arrangement. Not that he would want this with any other– _Crowley_ was his angel, the interesting contradiction of conflicting ideals, the only angel he would ever fraternize with.

“Your accomplishments are far too significant for Heaven to just retrieve you at a moment so important,” Aziraphale frowns, but Crowley shakes his head.

“Apparently not as important as the fact the Armageddon is coming and anything regarding humanity is considered ‘time wasting useless bullcrap’ by Heaven’s standards now. They only care about winning the war now.”

“But if you disagree– “

“’ _He’s the motherfuckin’ archangel Gabriel_ ’, Aziraphale, he can do whatever he wants,” Crowley glares at the ceiling sullenly, his voice mockingly morphing into a poor imitation of the other man. “I refused, yeah, but if he goes over my head and gets the court order from Metatron, I’d have to go,” Crowley’s voice stutters as he whispers, “I don’t want to go.”

“I don’t want you to go, either.”

“Heaven is so – so _cold_ ,” and Aziraphale knows he’s not meaning the temperature, “and I feel like its technicalities are choking me out of myself. When I’m standing there, I’m whatever Gabriel or Metatron or God wants to be, and not _me_. An agent, but not an individual. Do you know what that feels like?”

Hell is, by definition, hell. Demons do not give pardons, do not excuse ‘poor behavior’ against their own, physically crushing their own kind and even finding some form of perverted pleasure in the process. Yet this does not mean Heaven isn’t without its means or torture – Heaven incorporated a completely different way of abusing its habitants. With its countless propaganda and its unyielding psychological grip on the angels, Aziraphale often wonders if Heaven utilizes the crueler method – at least Hell never gives the illusion of freedom.

The demon shakes his head. “I could never.”

Aziraphale is a meticulous and calculous creature. He would not do anything for sentimental values and running to his death for another single creature would be one. But if it would wipe the saddened look on Crowley’s face, he would not hesitate to drive his blade through the archangel’s nonexistent heart.

His thought must have been showing because Crowley whispers worringly, “tell me you wouldn’t do anything extreme under my name,” and the look in his eyes – Heavens – no, Hells – that is not something you could say no to. Aziraphale thinks about having to face that from across the battlefield, under completely different circumstances, and he can’t help but think that death by Gabriel’s hands would be kinder.

He’s a coward, so he takes the easy way and stands up. “I’ll get the bottle of vodka. I have a feeling after this conversation, the alcohol would be an upgrade.”

Crowley gives him a conflicting look, a smug and sorry one, and settles into the bed. He’s obviously happy of the abrupt topic change because he shouts, “should have grabbed it before! Come on, let’s get stupid drunk and forget everything, baby.”

Aziraphale exits the room, leaving the tight tension that hasn’t quite dissipated away to execute his said action. While he pulls his feet towards the kitchen, he can swear he can feel the weight and the heat of his sword pressing against him, the ethereal item invisible but existent. He lets out a breath he hasn’t known he was holding, and lets the rage slip out of him.


End file.
